The herald of an almighty explosion.

Justin uncrossed his legs and sat up-slowly. Christian looked at him; they exchanged a glance, but before either could react-could even think of how to-she reined the unruly passions in.

Not completely, but enough to let them all realize they’d been holding their breaths.

Before anyone could say or do anything, she seized her reticule and-without looking at any of them-inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your plans.”

She stood, swinging around so fast none of them caught sight of her face. Leaving them scrambling to their feet, head high she swept to the door, opened it and went through.

They heard her heels clattering-quickly-down the stairs, then the front door opened-and shut.

Feeling horribly awkward, and out of their depth, the five men stared at the open library door, then Justin sighed, walked forward and shut it.

The sound of the latch released them from the spell; they glanced at each other, then Dalziel looked at Christian and grimaced apologetically. “I take it I metaphorically stepped on her toes.”

Justin shook his head. “By the reaction, I’d say it was the ones with bunions.”

Christian drew in a breath; his chest felt tight, as if he were the cause of her distress. He caught Justin’s eye. “Just how”-he waved at the door-“upset is she?”

Justin grimaced and waggled his head from side to side. “She might throw a Vaux tantrum, she might be truly angry-or she might be in a rage. The last you never want to see, and unless I miss my guess, she was on the brink of that, but drew back from wreaking havoc on us-and while I thank God she did, I’ve never seen her do that. I didn’t know she could.”

Justin frowned; he met Christian’s eyes. “What worries me is that I’m not sure, if she is in a rage, that she’ll even be able to see straight.”

Christian felt an icy hand clutch his heart. “I’ll go after her.” He turned to the door. “I’ll arrange the meeting with Roscoe and send word.” Hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Dalziel. “Where will you be?”

“For my sins, at the office. If I’m to accompany you tomorrow, I’ll be there until late.”

Christian nodded and went out, closing the door behind him. Going down the stairs, he saw Gasthorpe hovering, uncharacteristically uncertain, by the front door. Without preamble he asked, “Which way did she go?”

“Toward Mayfair, my lord. On foot. I would have summoned a hackney, but she’d already…”

Stormed off. “That’s quite all right, Gasthorpe. I’ll see she gets home.”

Gasthorpe hurried to open the front door; Christian went out, went quickly down the steps, strode down the path, turned right into Montrose Place, then lengthened his stride.

He caught up to her just beyond the corner of Green Park. Head still high, reticule clutched in both hands, she was striding along-entirely forgetting her customary glide. He doubted she was paying any attention to her surroundings; people walking in the opposite direction took care to get out of her way.

Knowing well enough not to try to take her arm, he fell into step alongside her. He glanced at her face; her expression was far too stony for his liking.

She knew he was there, but she gave no sign.

Eventually, he asked, his tone the epitome of mild, “Why are you so set on seeing Roscoe?”

That was, apparently, the right question to ask to break the hold she was keeping on her temper.

She stopped walking, rounded on him; eyes blazing, she locked them on his. “It’s not Roscoe, you dolt! I couldn’t care less if I never set eyes on the man in my entire life!”

He searched her eyes, a frown in his; he was now entirely at sea.

She saw, and flung up her hands. “It’s you, you fool!” She thumped him on the chest with her reticule. “I don’t-can’t…”

He recalled-belatedly-her agitation over him seeing Gallagher.

She drew in a shuddering breath. Eyes still locked on his, she spoke through clenched teeth; although she didn’t actually stamp her feet, she managed to convey that impression. “I can’t handle not knowing what’s happening to you. Knowing you’re going into danger-and on my account. Knowing you like it, that you find it exciting-that you might do God knows what if the mood strikes you!”

Waving her hands, she continued to rail at him-in the middle of Piccadilly in the middle of the afternoon, with total disregard for the interested-nay, fascinated-onlookers.

He stood there and let her, while understanding slowly seeped into his brain.

“Didn’t you notice the damned track I wore in your rug last night? I’m a Vaux, for heaven’s sake-I can’t not know!”

He suddenly-in another road-to-Damascus revelation-saw the light. Just in time to stop himself from pointing out that he’d spent the past twelve years behind enemy lines doing supremely dangerous things. That wasn’t, he now realized, her point.

He suddenly realized, fully and completely, just what that was.

He would have beamed delightedly had he not also comprehended how strung up she was, how brittlely tense.

Finally comprehended that that was a measure of how much he now meant to her.

He trapped her gaze. “About Roscoe.”

She blinked, her tirade momentarily derailed.

Moving slowly, holding her gaze, he gently took her arm. “There is no physical danger of any sort involved in meeting with him.”

She frowned, but let him turn her and guide her onto the path behind her, one leading into Green Park. “So I can go?”

He steered her on, under the leafy trees. “Let me explain. While going to see Gallagher was dangerous, that danger stemmed from the area in which he lives, not from him. He might be an underworld czar, but he’s not about to attack anyone, at least not directly.” He glanced at her; she was looking ahead, as yet unmollified, but at least she was listening. “Regardless, even if Gallagher had lived in Chelsea, you still couldn’t have gone to meet him because of the risk of someone seeing you and speaking of it, ultimately resulting in a serious scandal. That-the threat to your reputation-was the reason, all physical danger aside, that you couldn’t go with me to meet Gallagher.

“The reason you can’t go to the meeting with Roscoe is the same-if anything, even more so. If you were seen entering or leaving his house, regardless of the circumstances, your reputation would be shredded irretrievably.” That caused her frown-the quality of it-to change. His eyes on her face, what he could see of it, he strolled slowly on. “Roscoe lives in Pimlico, in well-to-do affluence. If Gallagher was unlikely to pose a physical threat, Roscoe is even less likely-that would be totally and comprehensively uncharacteristic. Roscoe would think it beneath him to resort to violence of any sort.”

He drew breath, then quietly said, “So you don’t need to worry about me when I go to see him.”

She didn’t say anything, simply kept walking by his side. Then she glanced at him, quickly read his eyes, then once more looked ahead. And sighed-tightly, but a little of her dangerous tension slipped away. “I know it’s irrational-you don’t have to tell me, I know. I didn’t feel this way-well, not so strongly-before, when you went away to war, but now…” She gestured helplessly. “I can’t help how I feel. And what I feel-and when I feel…”

“It affects you strongly.” Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers. “I know. I understand.” She wouldn’t feel so powerfully unless she loved him even more powerfully.

He knew those feeling irrational fears couldn’t simply stop. And in her case, before, his “going into danger” had indeed been the prelude to something disastrous happening in her life; small wonder that she reacted badly to any such situation now.

“Tomorrow, I’ll go to see Roscoe with Dalziel and Justin in the morning, then I’ll come back-directly back-and tell you what happens, what he says, what we learn-what the status is regarding the sale of the company.”

The telltale tension that had kept her ramrod stiff beside him ebbed step by step. Eventually she glanced at him, met his eyes. “You promise you’ll come directly back?”

He smiled slightly, turned her around and started them back toward Piccadilly. “Word of an Allardyce.”

She nodded and looked ahead. “Good.” After a moment she added, “I’ll be waiting.”

But that was for the morrow. That night they met at his aunt Cordelia’s house, first in her drawing room, then later they sat side by side at her long table while a highly select company dined.

It was primarily a political gathering, a renewal of contacts before the autumn session got under way; discussions ranged widely. Now he was Dearne, and fixed once more at home, Christian knew he would need to take a more active interest. Somewhat to his surprise, he discovered Letitia was more than qualified to advise him.

When he cocked a brow at her-Randall had held no seat in either the Commons or the Lords-she shrugged. “I act as Papa’s surrogate of sorts. I keep an eye on events, and if I tell him his vote is needed, he’ll grumble but come down to cast it. These days Justin could do the job, but with their falling out, the task has remained with me.” She glanced around the table. The ladies had yet to retire, primarily because they were, one and all, too deeply involved in the discussions going on. “It’s at events such as this that one hears the true story. Not just what the news sheets say, not just what the Prime Minister might decree, but the true nature of affairs underlying the decisions, or forming the basis for those yet to come.”

She looked back at him. “Do you plan to be active in Parliament?”

He met her gaze. “Until I know more, I can’t say, but…if one holds a seat in the Lords by virtue of one’s birth, it seems incumbent on one to do what the job requires-just like any other part of the duties of a marquess.”